Waiting For You
by Firemare
Summary: Not an E/C. And my first. Erik and a gypsy... what will happen? R/R only if you want to... ok, stupid summary. The fic's better. Really. I swear. No kidding. Seriously. Would I lie? Come on, would I? What do you mean, yes?? No, seriously.
1. Before

Needless to say, these characters aren't mine. Let's get on with the story.  
  
~Preface~  
  
Diana slid through the crowds, dressed in the muted browns of a gadjo child. She hovered near large families, so she wouldn't be noticed, but her sharp brown eyes caught everything. She glanced at the elderly tiger in its cage, shaking her head (like she had seen her papa do) when the cat yawned and revealed missing teeth. Poor thing. It would not create the needed distraction tonight, so she had to find another. The unwashed smell of the Robello gypsies made her wrinkle her nose as she passed. Her family would never be that filthy. No wonder no one liked them. Following along with a gadjo family chosen momentarily, she found herself wandering in the direction of the freak tent. As the curtain was pushed aside to enter, an achingly beautiful song on violin drifted towards her. It was soft, gentle, but so sad! Her papa had played like that when her mama died. The man who played that must be an angel. Still in the back of the crowd, she didn't understand why there were gasps of horror and amusement when the song came to an end. Using her sharp elbows and tiny size to her advantage, Diana pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She didn't care if she was noticed-she wanted to see the angel.  
What she saw greeted her with a terrible shock. She stood there, openmouthed, watching one of the Robello gypsies bring a big whip down on the angel's back. The man's head hung, his jaw set, and he didn't even flinch, but his long, elegant hands grasped the bars in front of him until his knuckles when white. Tears welled up in her eyes; the man looked like the dog she had rescued last year: thin, bony, and unhealthy. Scars were visible over his body, and his clothes were in tatters. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, not even the dirty straw pile in one corner, and the thick chains around his ankles. The violin lay discarded to one side, set neatly on the ground, the bow next to it.  
"Look at them!" shouted the Robello, bringing down the whip again. The man slowly raised his head and faced the crowd, and again came the gasps and muffled laughter. Diana's eyes filled and spilled over, and she ran sobbing from the tent. She soon outdistanced the Robello camp and found her own family, hidden in the darker woods. She raced into the camp, crying like she hadn't in years, and fell into her papa's astonished arms. Trying to get out her story around all the tears, she knew that her papa would do something about it. She couldn't erase the mental image of the poor angel, his face twisted to one side, his golden yellow eyes staring out into the crowd with anguish. Her papa looked over her head at the rest of his clan, and they nodded back. They had found their distraction.  
  
-------@  
  
Erik felt himself flung to the floor of his cage. His back was afire with pain and he could hardly move. In his mind the jeering crowds came back to him, echoing in the recesses of his head. Javert had even taken his violin-even if he could move, he could not calm himself with music tonight. He thought back to the tiny girl who had been in the front for only a few minutes. She couldn't have been more than six or seven, and she had cried and ran at the sight of his face. The mental image of her long dark brown hair streaming out behind her as she ran pricked his interest. She almost looked of gypsy heritage, if she hadn't been wearing normal clothes.  
  
Erik gritted his teeth against the pain and moved slightly to drink down some water. He shifted so that the slight breeze would move against his aching and probably bloody back, and tried to sleep. He knew Javert would come to his cage later that night, drunk and enraged at his unenthusiastic 'performance'. He felt despair wash over him: how could he continue to do this if children ran from him in horror? He shut his eyes and did not even bother to replace his mask.  
  
A slight metallic creak awoke him as his cage door opened. He opened his eyes just a slit, and could tell it was dark outside. The slight breeze indicated that the door was open, and he closed his eyes again so he could not see his torturer come towards him. But there were no heavy footfalls. After a few heartbeats, he raised his head and glanced at the door. A shape stood there, silhouetted against the light from the open tent flap. Erik blinked. It was the little girl. She had a set of lock picks in one hand, obviously how she had gotten in. She was wearing an odd mix of gray and black clothing, and it struck him as she stood there, an air of uncertainty around her, that she was clearly a gypsy. Her large mass of uncontrolled brown hair rose and swirled around her shoulders, almost dwarfing her already small figure. Her bare feet made no sound as she padded lightly towards him. She fell to her knees at his feet and swiftly but surely made short work of his manacles. Then, staring at him, she drew out a short knife. The sharp edge glinted in the torchlight as she handed it to him, hilt first. Before he was about to take it, she spoke.  
  
"Angelo," she said, her clear young voice having that strange, almost Italian, gypsy lilt. "Papa says only for vengeance, not for revenge." She stared at him solemnly until he nodded and took it quietly. Excitement was rising up in him. Here was his chance: freedom and an opportunity to get back at his captors.  
  
"What're you doing 'ere?" came a voice. They both spun around to see Javert stare at them drunkenly from the tent opening. "Whose brat are you? I'll teach you to poke your 'ead in 'ere!" He unfurled his heavy bullwhip and pointed it at the girl.  
  
Red fire flashed across Erik's vision. Standing up quickly and silently, he placed himself in front of the child. Javert's jaw dropped open, working silently. As the gypsy tried to control himself and stepped forward menacingly, Erik smiled grimly. Quickly he dove at the man, kicking his legs out from underneath him. He let the light fall on the knife blade, and grinned horribly at Javert, knowing the uneven light really did make him seem like a corpse. He would have let the man die slowly, as he had imagined it in his dreams, but there was a noise behind him. Spinning, his eyes met with that of the child. She looked at him anxiously, and Erik felt the weight of her expectations on his very soul. Vengeance, not revenge. Sighing, he returned to Javert, who soiled himself in fear, and mercifully slit the man's throat. As the man died a quick death, Erik felt a small hand take his empty one. He looked down to see the child smile peacefully up at him, and then she slid her hand from his and padded out the tent. Erik followed her, but lost sight of her as soon as he stepped out of the freak tent. That was alright-he had other things to take care of.  
  
He tracked down the others who had a hand in his torture, killing them all in the same quick and fairly painless manner. He set the other animals in the "show" loose. It was when he set the toothless tiger loose that the other gypsies streamed out of their tents and attacked him. He fought them off the best he could, but he was weakened, and they pressed closer. Suddenly help came from an unexpected quarter. Another band of gypsies, dressed in black and gray, slid silently into the camp and made short work of the ones surrounding him. A body fell on him, trapping him to the ground, and by the time he awoke from his daze and started to struggle out from under it, the gypsies were dead.  
  
A small noise came from his side, and he looked up to meet the dark eyes of the girl he had seen earlier. She tugged on the dead body on top of him, showing no squeamishness or repulsion. An older man came over and helped her, and then gave Erik an assessing look. Fear raced through him as the man's eyes lit on his thin frame and ruined face. He didn't react either, showing the same cool glance that the girl had. Using a burst of fear as adrenaline, Erik pushed the gypsy aside and rose.  
  
"Angelo--" He turned and saw the little girl hold out a bag to him. Hardly thinking, he scooped it up and raced out of the camp, his long legs putting distance between him and the gypsies, who did not even follow him.  
  
Later that night he stopped, sank to the ground, and opened up the bag. To his surprise he found food: lots of traveling bread, a tin of butter, and some dried fruit and meat. Half-eaten greens were piled underneath it, and with his amusement he realized the girl had gotten rid of her vegetables by hiding them in the sack. There was enough food for three or four days. Under the food was a set of clothing, warn and patched, but clean and plain. A small pouch jingled as he pulled it out, and he emptied it into his hand to see some money, three rings worth a few francs, and a delicate heart-shaped locket on a chain. He replaced the rings (which were obviously supposed to be used for money changing) and the money, and strung the necklace around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. The bottom of the bag was padded with a blanket, and as he removed it, he saw it was a warm woolen one, with an odd-shaped bulge in the middle. He carefully unwrapped it, and saw the violin, strings relaxed and packed for moving. There were a new set of strings wrapped around the bow, and he clutched it to him. He had freedom, and he had music. 


	2. Later

I reiterate: the plot and Diana are mine. Everything else.. Yah.  
  
~Ch. 1~ (many years later)  
Dear Christine: I .certainly hope you're happy (crossed out) miss you (crossed out) .wish you all the happiness in your new life. I hope you recall your poor. love (crossed out) teacher (crossed out) ..Angel, and I would like you to know that you no longer need to worry about me coming after. that fop (crossed out) your useless (crossed out) man (crossed out) talentless (crossed out) cretin.(crossed out, crossed out)  
  
Erik sighed and crumpled up the letter. He couldn't bring himself to write "husband". And now he was out of ink, too. He tossed the letter across the room to the wastebasket and muttered when it didn't even make it a meter. His larder had been empty for days. He didn't bother replenishing it after the mob had attacked, and hadn't really seen much point since he was just going to die anyway. Shuffling through his desk, he sighed. The blinding, gut-clenching pain and anger had faded along with his hunger after the first few days. Instead there was just a leaden ball in his stomach, pulling his heart down with puppet strings. there was a song in that. no! Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself of his promise-his music was over. He was never going to write again. Except this last letter. Which was impossible, because he didn't have any more ink. In the entire room. Erik rose unsteadily and went to go steal some from the managers.  
  
Working his way through the hidden passageways of the opera house, he passed the dressing rooms of the performers. He pressed his hands against his ears so he would not have to listen to any of the mediocre, inferior.! Unfortunately, on the way back, carrying a bottle of ink quickly snatched from "Artless" Andre's desk, he couldn't do that. As he passed Carlotta's room, he heard her complaining again, loudly. Big surprise. But then another voice, a soft, murmured mezzo-soprano returned.  
  
"You called, I came as soon as I could," said the younger woman.  
  
"Ubaldo is dead! You should have been here sooner!" Carlotta screeched.  
  
"My condolences, senora," the woman said, but her voice was calm and unapologetic. "If there is nothing else."  
  
"There is!" Carlotta pounced. "I am sure the monster is not dead. Use your skills to find him. I want his head!!" Her voice, as always, was overly loud and melodramatic.  
  
The other woman's voice was cold, controlled steel. "You helped my clan out once. We owe you a favor. Not a life. A favor. I will try to help you for that, but if you insist again, we shall withdraw our support."  
  
Erik laughed silently, pausing to listen. He could almost feel Carlotta's surprise and barely reined anger. He felt approval for the younger woman with the soft voice, and would have peered into the room had a wave of vertigo not washed over him. He gripped the wall, and his stomach, momentarily reminded, let out a growl so loud it echoed in the walls. The ink in his hand, he wove his way quickly and silently through the passageways to his chambers. This would all be over soon.  
  
~  
  
Diana tilted her head at the strange sound in the walls, but did not dismiss it as pipes groaning as Carlotta did. Concluding her bargain with the large obnoxious singer, she left the dressing room wondering how her cousins could have ever needed the woman's help. But family was family, and the Herreras rroma were more protective than most. Carlotta had sent for the family's most talented member, and Diana arrived, dressed in gadjo clothes, her hair in a strict bun. She could blend in with most any group of people, after a lifetime of learning the trade at her father's knee. The Herreras were gypsies with special skills, many involving the darker aspects of life, and Diana was no exception.  
  
The first person she went to was the respected Mme.Giry, an older woman who was said to know much of the 'monster's history. She found Giry leaving the stage, chasing all the ballet girls in front of her with her walking stick. Diana watched as the girls, in "gypsy" dress, scampered away in the wings, like so much flitting butterflies. With about as much brains in their heads. Giry's sharp eyes darted up at Diana. "Here to try out, mademoiselle?" the woman asked, taking in Diana's short, lithe form.  
  
Huh. Not likely. Measuring the woman up, Diana decided to try an unusual tactic: directness. "Mme, I would like to know if you have any information about the Opera Ghost that was said to have so recently haunted these halls. I am writing a book, and I heard that you would be the best informed person on both sides of this story to consult."  
  
Directness, not honesty.  
  
Giry tilted her small head up at Diana, who was perhaps only a little taller. "So, you've come to ask me about the Angel of Music?" she purred, proving once again that no one was immune to flattery.  
  
"Angel?" 


	3. Original chapter titles, no?

You all know it; don't make me write the disclaimer again. BTW, thanks for suspending your belief.  
  
~Ch.2~  
  
Diana wandered back to her rented flat, mulling over what Giry had told her. The story of a slightly mad, soprano-obsessed musical genius living in secret below the opera house was a bit far-fetched. But it seemed to collaborate with everything that she had heard from the other opera folk. Naturally, opera folk were a little strange to begin with-it came with all that singing. That and staying in one place all the time, but all gadjos were like that.  
  
She unlocked her door and let herself into the flat. It wasn't very decorated-she didn't plan on being here long. On the main table rested her pipes and violin in their cases. Stroking one of the long, elegant boxes a cousin had made for her, she let one hand rise to her hair. Releasing her bun, the long brown-black tresses cascaded to her waist. She lit a fire, sat in a chair, and raised the violin to her chin. Finding solace in music, she let her mind wander back to her family. What were they doing right now? Her fingers unwittingly turned to the sweet simple melody that she had first learnt. Home, home, home.  
  
~  
  
Dear Christine: Think no more of your poor angel (Erik muttered as he accidentally spelled angel "angle" for the third time in the dim light). Tonight I would say that I have planned to end it all, but it all really finished when you left. I am saddened to hear that you will no longer be performing in this Opera house, and so I will end the stage's silent misery by setting the fuses tonight. Please don't mourn for me, I---  
  
"Erik?"  
  
The tip of the pen snapped against the paper, forming a large ink blot on the letter. Erik closed his eyes in frustration. Nadir's voice echoed outside the chambers. He knocked again at the door. "Erik?" At the other man's continued silence, Nadir's voice filled with frustration and annoyance. "Erik, I know you can hear me. Don't waste your life because she left." Nadir refrained from expressing his true opinion of Christine--- the last time he did that, Erik nearly killed him. He sighed. "Look, I'm going to leave for a few weeks. I've left you some food outside so you won't have to.to go outside. Don't---don't do anything stupid, all right? Who will take care of your cat?" There was silence from the chambers. Nadir shook his head. He knew better than to try to force Erik to talk to him right now. "Goodbye, friend," he said, shaking his head.  
  
Erik heard Nadir step into the boat and leave. "Sorry, friend," he said quietly. "Your deus ex machina isn't going to work this time." He left the food where it was, outside, and looked at his letter again. His shoulders slumped. What was the use? She wasn't going to come back. He really did have no reason to live. He glanced over to where the fuses were set, almost all of the dynamite laid down in the proper places. Then it struck him that if he was going to die, he might as well do it in the best manner possible. That decided, he went into his room to change.  
  
Slipping out of his dirty clothes, stained and wrinkled for living in them for almost three weeks, Erik pulled out a freshly starched and ironed shirt. He dressed in his very best tuxedo and tails, carefully tying his cravat without the aid of a mirror. He washed his hands and face, even attempted to comb his hair. He pulled out his best mask, clean and spotless white ceramic, and slid that over his face. He took out the ring Christine had left him, and placed it on his pinkie finger. His hand hovered above the simple golden chain before deciding to put that on, too. Remembering the tiny gypsy child who had given it to him, his first present. He still didn't know why she had placed it in the bag with the food and violin. A part of his mind suggested that it had been intended for him to wear, that he had not just kept it out of sentimental reasons. But he rejected that thought on the absurdity of it. The child couldn't possibly have wanted him to have it---it must have been placed in there by accident. Still, he wore it as a symbol of freedom, the freedom that had been given to him on that day. All what he needed now was freedom from his thoughts. 


	4. Angelo?

Disclaimer.. La dee dah.  
  
~Ch 3~  
Diana sighed and put down her violin. She scooped up the pipes from the table and left the flat. Her wandering feet couldn't stand being in one space for too long, especially not that tiny room. She decided to poke around the Opera House in search for somewhere to practice. Meandering her way around the streets of Paris, she noticed a dark figure leave an alleyway. She pulled herself into the shadows, watching as the man strode by her. He passed under a street lamp, and she saw that his skin was the darker shade of an oriental, or an Indian. He was muttering something, but all she could catch was "stay.all alone." in a disgusted voice.  
  
It piqued her curiosity. She glanced after him, and as soon as he turned the corner, she felt her way into the alleyway. To her surprise, the other side contained a gate. A huge, rusted gate that was pretty much immovable and most certainly locked. She eyed the keyhole with a professional eye. There was no lock that a Herreras couldn't pick. Particularly Diana. Had her father not taught her when she was a babe, to feel the tiny vibrations coming up from the tools? Hadn't she freed more than one animal---or man, her mind flitting back to the Angel from when she was seven---with her skills since age four?  
  
The lock was not a challenge. Neither was sliding through the small opening that was all the rusted gate would allow. Not for the first time, Diana silently thanked her small frame. That which could sometimes be difficult had a great advantage.  
  
The passageway was dark and twisted frequently. When there were turns, she knelt to the ground and felt for the other's footprints. She carefully tucked all information in her mind in an organized place. Finally the sounds of lapping water brought her up short. She was in front of a large lake. She saw that farther up the line was another passageway from which musical tones echoed. It must be connected to the opera house. A small boat rocked gently against the bank.  
  
It was sound, and Diana anchored it firmly against the edge as she stepped out. A huge door stood in front of her. It had once been decorated, but it looked like it had taken a severe beating sometime soon. Boxes were laid next to the door, and when Diana peered through them she saw food--- most of it the kind that would last for weeks, such as canned and dried goods. Someone must be either living inside or planning to live inside. She laid her ear against the door, but didn't hear anything. She paused before continuing. Did she really have the right to break into this house, or whatever it was? Did she really need to invade someone's privacy? Where some of her family wouldn't have even considered it, it showed a measure of Diana's ethical code that she paused before shrugging and continuing on.  
  
This door showed a little bit more guts---it was harder to break into, but most certainly not the hardest lock Diana had ever opened. Forcing it open, she peered inside. It was dark, very dark, but she could catch glimpses of light reflecting off things like candlesticks and lamps. "Hello? Hellooo?" It appeared no one was in. She moved the boxes inside the door and continued on. It was useless without light, however. Finally she struck a match and searched for a candle. Closest to the door, a small pile of round sticks touched her hand and she leant closer with the match. Her eyes widened as she read the words on the sticks. "Explo---"  
  
"You little fool!!" shouted a voice, and she felt a weight hit her just as one of sticks of dynamite caught fire. There was a sharp rumble, and the world filled with light. Then it went black.  
  
~  
  
The first thing Diana felt when she woke up was a blinding headache. Then as she blinked, and the spots from her eyes cleared, she slowly became aware of a weight on her legs. She looked down, and saw a man sprawled on top of her. Without a doubt, it was the one who had pushed her out of the way when the dynamite went off. He was unconscious, and from the way he felt on her legs, he was very thin. She pushed him away from her and went to look at the rest of the place.  
  
She found a real candle this time and managed to light most of the room. It was a huge common room, with an enormous pipe organ taking up almost all of one wall. She spotted a smaller kitchen off to one side, and noted two doors, one of them opened slightly, on another wall. Diana turned the way that she had come in and gasped. An entire section of the wall had collapsed. The door was entirely covered. Her heart began to race as she looked for another exit. She turned around and ran through the other rooms. Barely noting the coffin in one, she saw neither windows nor doors in either bedroom. She snatched up an empty vase and filled it with water in the kitchen. Racing back to where the man lay, she threw the water on his head. He sputtered and coughed, heaving himself up on his elbows. He turned around and sat up, and Diana fell to her knees and slapped him.  
  
His body rocked backwards with the strength of the blow, and for a moment it looked like he was going to collapse again. He raised a hand to his face in shock, and stared at Diana. "Wha---"  
  
"That was for calling me a fool," she said, her eyes still flickering around her anxiously. "Where can I get out of here?"  
  
"The door, mademoiselle," the man said sarcastically, gesturing towards the collapsed wall, and then did a double-take. "You little---!"  
  
Diana's eyes darted back to him briefly. "If you're going to start the insults again, you're heading the right way for another slap." Then her eyes connected with his face.  
  
~  
  
Erik realized that he wasn't wearing his mask the same time the girl's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. His hand was upon skin, and he glanced next to him. The ceramic mask, paper-thin, had shattered when he hit the floor. No wonder the girl wanted to get out of here so badly. His hand took a slightly more protective position on his face. He glanced up at the girl again. Her mouth was working silently. He tensed for the scream, but she apparently couldn't get anything out. Finally she said something.  
  
"..An-Angelo?" 


	5. What!

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews, guys. You asked, I'm giving you more.  
  
Disclaimer: I have eight toes.  
  
~Ch 4~  
  
"Angelo?"  
  
Erik stared at the girl. She stared back, eyes wide with shock. His mouth fell open. It was the child---the strange almost-gypsy child that had freed him from the faire cage. His stunned gaze traveled down her body and back again. She certainly wasn't a child anymore: her simple dress clung to woman's curves, and where her skirt had been burnt away, he could spot a shapely ankle. Her dark hair, a heavy mass of black-brown hair, had worked its way loose from a severe bun and cascaded down her shoulders. In short, she was a beautiful creature. But she was still a gypsy. A flame of anger (laced heavily with fear) ran through him, but he was far too weak to make it last long enough to kill her. The last thing he needed was a gypsy, someone who would drag him back to a loathsome cage and use his monstrous visage to make money off of. Even in his weakened state, he was sure that was what her family had intended when they had set him free: first they would set him on his captors, and then when he was weakened, take him for their own. The bag that he had grabbed off the child must have been intended for someone else. He remembered waking the next day and being brought back to the terrible truth of it---he was a monster, and there was no way that the child could have meant to give the bag to him. Still, sometimes he thought of that bag in a sentimental way, as one of his first gifts. He gave another fleeting look at the girl. Why was she here? How did she get here?  
  
She couldn't have wandered in here unexpectedly; a gypsy she might be, but she was not stupid. Her eyes flickered to the shattered mask on the ground, and back down to his sprawled frame, still dressed in his opera tuxedo. "So you're the ghost," she said, in a thoughtful voice. "It should have clued me in when Mme. Giry called you a 'genius' and an 'angel'. Carlotta's had me looking for you. I'm pretty sure she wants you dead," she added without preamble.  
  
"Is that what you're doing down here?" Erik asked sarcastically, finally finding his voice. He thought back to her 'accident' when lighting the dynamite. Did she intend to kill him now? Again he tried to dredge up some anger, some energy from anywhere, but again it eluded him.  
  
She stiffened, but shook her head. "I was just investigating. My family does not owe Carlotta that much and I think that you would find we owe you more."  
  
"Owe me?" he said. He shook his head weakly. This was too much. He glanced over to the collapsed wall. He had wanted to do it all at once, but now he and this girl would be trapped here, slowly starving to death. Gypsy or not, she certainly didn't deserve that.  
  
~  
  
Diana followed his glance, and a renewed wave of fear washed over her. She was trapped..her heart started beating faster again. The angelo gave her a wary look. "I'm-I don't like closed spaces," she said quickly. "Please tell me there's another exit to this place."  
  
Her heart stopped when he lowered himself back to the ground weakly and shook his head. "I...bricked up the other passageway yesterday," he said, his voice fading. "That was the only exit." His eyes started to shut slowly.  
  
She gripped him by the shoulders and shook him heavily. "What?? No windows? No other doors?" His eyes opened briefly, but they slid close before she could get a sensible answer out of them. Diana slapped him again, trying to get the man to wake up. No reaction. She felt for a pulse quickly, and wasn't surprised to feel it sluggishly under her fingers. Alarmed, yes; surprised, no. He was close to death, this one. She tore her gaze away from him and to the wall. Keeping him alive would stop her from going insane as she tried to move the fallen bricks and mortar.  
  
Her mind flickered to the other rooms that she had searched. Hadn't there been a bed in one? Casting a wary glance back at the angelo lying on the floor, she rose and peered in them again. They were both bedrooms, apparently, but only one had a bed. The other had a strange padded coffin, with a sheet of black silk. Diana frowned. No way was she putting him in a coffin---it might turn out to be a prophecy of things to come. The room with the bed was a woman's room. There was a vanity, complete with perfume and hairbrushes, as well as a small bathroom attached. The décor was nauseatingly pink. Whatever woman who lived here must have been a ninny, she thought. Still, the bed was large, and the room was warm.  
  
After a lifetime of road-travel, the angelo was surprisingly easy to lift, just awkward to move around. He was incredibly thin, and even his height didn't make up for the lack of breadth. Diana staggered to the room with his arm around her shoulder, half-carrying and half-pulling him along. Putting him on the bed as gently as she could, she pulled off his shoes and opera coat and slid him fully under the covers. Then she went to go investigate the kitchen. This was going to be interesting. 


	6. Nightmares

Disclaimer: ok, so I really don't have 8 toes. But wouldn't it be cool?  
  
~Ch 5~  
The nightmares were the worst. The first time it happened, Diana was actually in the room. She was cleaning up the vomit that had arrived after she first tried to feed Angelo. It started low, a whimpering in the back of his throat, as his breath quickened and he started to move weakly. She looked up at him with attentiveness, and her brow creased as he muttered in his sleep. "..maman.." she caught, but most of the words were incoherent. Washing her hands, she laid one on top of his forehead. She smoothed back his sweat-soaked hair with the other, and he relaxed and even smiled a little. "Merci, maman," she heard him murmur as he fell asleep again.  
  
Diana frowned as she watched him slip deeper into sleep. He was not getting better as quickly as he should be. She could almost believe that he had been without food for some time. He had certainly acted like it when she fed him some of the soup she had made. After finishing the cleaning, she went back to the kitchen, where she had stocked the food that had been in the boxes. She pawed through the cupboards. The only thing left to try would be gruel and milk---there was plenty of condensed milk, and she was lucky that the water continued to work after the wall had collapsed.  
  
Once she had gotten the place lit well enough, it astounded her. There had been another, smaller room: a library, stocked with all sorts of books, comfortable chairs, and even a small pianoforte. The only rooms that had been untouched by the wreckage caused by apparently a mob going through it (most likely the mob that Carlotta had described) were the bedroom Angelo was now in and the library. Diana was glad---her clan didn't have much in the way of books, and she was a voracious reader. Sometimes her papa had even laughed at her about it---"My little Nose-in-a-Book," he teased. "If you got your nose bitten off, no one would ever know." That was, of course, before he had begun her training in earnest.  
  
She had slung up a hammock between two bookshelves, using some fallen masonry to keep it in place. Once she had moved enough of the rocks out of the way she planned to move it to the entrance so she could breathe the fresh air as she was sleeping. The next nightmare, less than five hours after the other one, sent her tumbling out of the hammock, the slim knife she had found ready.  
  
It was a cry of anguish that echoed through the underground chambers. Tucking the knife in the soft rope belt of her pantaloons, she made her way to the bedroom. The fire she had created earlier made her feel thankful she was just wearing a camisole and her undergarments. The angelo had thrown off most of the covers, his shirt darkened with sweat, yet when she touched his hands, she found they were freezing. With a cry of "Away, child!" he yanked his hand out from hers. But a heartbeat later, he snatched it up again. "Oh, Christine," he said, grasping her hand harshly in his. "I am so sorry, cherie. Forgive me. Please forgive me. Don't leave me." His strong fingers nearly crushed her hands in his earnestness, and she saw he was still asleep. She had to do something that would let him release her. Finally she placed her hand on top of his, and said quietly, "I know you didn't mean it. I won't leave you. I'll never leave you." His mouth dropped open in wonder, and a look of utter bliss crossed his face. "Shhhh," she said, stroking his hand as it still held hers in a death grip. "You must rest now. Regain your strength. I must---" her mind searched for a way out. What did she know of this Christine? "I must finish my practicing. I will be here when you wake." She hoped that would work.  
  
It did. The angelo relaxed his grip on her hand. He nodded slightly. "Work for greater stability above the staves," he said, apparently trying to sound like a well person. "Your high D is not what it should be." He fell back against the pillows. "Will you really be here?" he said in a whisper. "I fear this is a dream."  
  
Diana paused. What could she say to that? It was in fact a dream. Apparently Mlle Daee was off somewhere married to a comte. She would not be here. She would not be coming back. All what the angelo had here was her, Diana. This would not be good enough. Diana bit her lip. Finally: "I will always be in your heart, my angel."  
  
She didn't even know if he had heard her. He was asleep again, stretched out along the bed. She pulled up the blankets around him and left the room, wondering how long this would go on.  
  
The gods themselves couldn't have answered her question. The angelo continued to have nightmares for the next few days. Diana got quite accustomed to listening for his unsettled moans so she could catch them before they turned into full-fledged cries. At one point she recognized his nightmare---it was of the Robello wagon train. She caught that one almost before it started. "No, no," she said, stroking his hair quietly. "Remember? You escaped. They are all dead. There was a child---"  
  
"A little girl," he said, calming a bit before breathing hard again. "I must run, before they catch me. They're all alike---"  
  
"They are not," Diana said hotly, but quietly. "The Robello clan was a blight among our--their people. One bad apple can taint the entire barrel. They had to be stopped before people everywhere thought of the rrom as pests in need of extermination. They did not intend to catch you and place you in a cage again. You were a distraction, a much-needed one, so that the other clan could creep in unnoticed and 'clean house'. Had you stayed, you would have been an honored guest for as long as you wanted. It is up to us to help repair the damage that others have done." She glanced down at him, and saw that he had faded to deeper sleep again. A faint line had appeared in his scarred and twisted forehead, between his eyebrows as he attempted to take in this new information, but even as she watched it faded as he relaxed again.  
  
The next few days were much the same. Most of the time he was next to unconscious when she managed to feed him, but the gruel and porridge stayed down. Part of the wall collapsed again as she was moving the rocks, and the resulting frustration and sense of claustrophobia almost sent her into a panic attack, which was averted only by a nightmare that was, for once, convenient. By the time she was finished calming his thrashing form, (which had been harder as he had become stronger), the feeling had almost passed and she was able to start again. And he was getting stronger. When she woke him up to feed him, he had a little more coherency in him, even though he was still, to all purposes, useless to the world. Then it happened.  
  
She pushed open the door to the terribly pink bedroom with her hip, her hands loaded with the tray of food. The bed before her was starkly empty, the blankets thrown to one side. As her glance darted to the rest of the room, a long cold hand wrapped inhuman fingers around her neck. "What do you believe you are doing here, mademoiselle?" asked a voice, dark and warm as silk velvet. 


	7. No big deal?

Disclaimer: I hate finals. Really. And I'm sorry about my screen name, it's a private joke; if you don't get it, just try to ignore the fact that I call myself Warm Fuzzy and concentrate on the goodness of the story instead. *Mmm..... Phantomy goodness..*  
  
Author's note: Oh, and I love all you people for writing reviews. Please, let me know if there are any typos in these chapters, because it's one thing I can't stand. So here's the next chapter, under pain of Lasso, apparently.  
  
~Ch 6~  
  
"What do you believe you are doing here, mademoiselle?" came the voice. Its soft velvet wrapped its way around Diana's brain like the slender fingers around her neck. Her mouth dropped open slightly at the beauty of it, but the hand that tightened warningly brought her back to the present.  
  
It also brought the silver tea set on the man's head. Diana tossed it up in the air, grabbing the man's hand as it relaxed at her neck in surprise, pushed her rear back into his waist, and threw him over her shoulder using her hip as the fulcrum. His head and back, falling over hers, caught most of the tea set, the large silver pitcher making a hollow clanging sound as it struck his head. He landed on a heap upon the floor, not surprisingly, unconscious.  
  
She rolled her eyes and went to go examine the angelo. His voice had caught her off guard; before when he spoke, it had been harsh with surprise and weariness. Now it was the seductive purr of one who thought he was in control. He had been wrong, of course, but what a voice! For the first time she entertained the thought that he could make a lot of money traveling with her clan. As she heaved him up upon the bed again, she shook her head. From what she had heard of his nightmares, he had a deep abiding fear and hate of her people---not without good reason, of course, but still unlikely to be changed. And here she was trapped inside a building with him, she thought to herself wryly.  
  
Once again, she wasn't very kind when waking him up. She soaked up most of the spilled water in a rag and wrung it out on to his face. The water brought him back sputtering and coughing, and this time he found himself facing a sharpened knife from his own kitchen.  
  
"That was not very polite, m'seiur," Diana said, eyeing him carefully. "I was the only thing keeping you alive just yesterday."  
  
"What's keeping me alive right now?" he asked slowly, suspiciously.  
  
Diana blinked, frowning a little. "Right now? Ah," she said, furrowing her brow in thought. "Right now. I don't know. Good point." His eyes widened at that remark, and she tilted her head. There was a silence. Then she shrugged, and threw the knife so that it was sent thudding, point- down, in the bedside table. On the other side of the massive bed. At least four feet away. "I think it's how nice your voice was," she said, in the tones of one just discovering something. "That and the fact that you did push me out of the way when I saw the explosives."  
  
The last sentence drew his dark amber eyes from the still-vibrating knife back to Diana. He shot a glance out the door behind her. "What happened? How are we sill alive?"  
  
"The dynamite only took out one section of the wall," Diana said. "The section with the door. It's now a pile of absolute rubble, along with our only exit, from what you said earlier. You're lucky I brought in those boxes outside before the wall fell---otherwise we would have died of starvation in here. You especially. How long has it been since you've eaten?"  
  
He shook his head. "I don't know. Weeks, perhaps. At least Nadir will be pleased to find that he has saved my life once again. His deus ex machina worked."  
  
"You have your own personal deus ex machina?" Diana asked, lifting a brow. "How fortunate."  
  
"He is a most inconvenient one," the angelo replied dryly. "I take it he didn't send you here?"  
  
"Hardly." Now that they were in a conversation, Diana bent to pick up the plates and meal. "Carlotta did, in a way. I saw him leaving, and since I was hired to investigate the 'death' and 'disappearance' of a certain Opera Ghost by the diva herself, I decided to trace his steps back. I ended up here."  
  
"You, mademoiselle, were hired to investigate?" But even though his tone was still suspicious and distrusting, she caught the humorous glint when she had spoken of Carlotta in an ironic voice. Apparently he thought as little of the woman's "talents" as she did.  
  
"I have certain... skills that would make myself useful in that category," Diana replied, taking no offence. Really, it was almost better when people underestimated her. She had proven her skills to herself and her clan, and that was good enough for her.  
  
His eyes flickered back to the knife. "I believe you do, mademoiselle." The golden orbs slid to her as she sat next to his bed, the bowl of recovered porridge in her lap. "I do not eat with other people," he added, shifting uncomfortably. "It is hard to eat with a mask on."  
  
"Then I guess it's a good thing you don't have one," she said, unperturbed. "What's your name?"  
  
The offhand question caught him unawares as the first sentence reached his brain. "E-Erik," he said, and then caught himself. A shaking hand rose up to his face. He tilted his head away from her. "Why are you not afraid?" he asked, bitterness rising up in his voice. "How can you stand to look at me?"  
  
"I've seen it before," she added, reminding him. "Besides, it's not that bad."  
  
A wash of anger rose up in him. Rage clouded his vision. "Not that bad??!!" 


	8. Think of this as a Transitional Chapter

Disclaimer: I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. It might get changed later. Perhaps.  
  
~Ch 7~  
  
Diana stepped back in shock as the angelo---Erik straightened up rage. His eyes turned from the dark amused amber to a shocking, almost evil, yellow. "Not that bad?" he repeated. His voice this time was not the enraged shout, but a cold chilling murmur that was somehow almost worse. "Please elucidate."  
  
"You're, ah, not dead," Diana said, straightening up. "Had you really been a ghost, it would have been much worse, such as, er, moldy and rotting. Bodies get rancid after a few days, and while some ghosts tend to mirror the shape they were in when they were killed, some do go all...icky." She glanced down at her hands, amazed at the man's ability to make her feel nervous. She hadn't felt like this since she was a child. Then she straightened her back and looked at him, and saw the self-mockery hidden behind the anger. She realized that no matter how much other people insulted him, he would always be insulting himself as well. "No matter how bad you think it may be," she said, "it's not that bad." Trying to ignore the fact that moments ago she had almost been racing out of the room in fear, she gathered up the shreds of her dignity and left the room, leaving the food behind.  
  
Erik tried to turn her remarks over in his mind as the anger drained from his mind in confusion. Why had she said such things? She probably pitied him. A cold chill ran through him at that thought. Christine had pitied him----and then betrayed him. This girl was a gypsy; what she could do would probably be much worse. He would watch his step around her and make sure she left as soon as possible. But...she was also very pretty, and she had looked upon him without the habitual wince or glancing away that other people did. There was something about her... Erik shook his head. She had to leave. That decision taken care of, he turned over the porridge with his spoon and began to eat. It was a good thing that there wasn't much left in the bowl, because by the time he was done, his hand was shaking badly. He carefully set the bowl on the side table and lay back against the pillows.  
  
He might have dozed off, because he didn't hear the girl enter when she came in. His sensitive hearing should have picked up her movements; there was no way she could be that silent---but then his eyes slid over to the knife on the other side table. She certainly was an interesting person. He glanced back at her, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw that her plain brown skirt had been wrapped around her legs---it was split in two! While it was less scandalous than most riding skirts, the bottoms were tied around her ankles with spare string, and her bare feet were delicate and entrancing. He had never thought of a woman's feet to be attractive before. He met her eyes, dancing under her mass of heavy black- brown hair, held back by a triangle of cloth. She looked more like a gypsy than ever.  
  
"Done?" she asked lightly. When he furtively glanced back down at her legs, she explained, "I was moving the fallen wall. The skirt was getting in my way."  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"My name is Diana Herreras, of the clan Herreras," she replied, picking up the bowl. "I believe we've met before," she nodded at the necklace still around his neck.  
  
"Diana... You are not a gypsy, then?" He took in her stance, the stealthy movements of her body as she crossed around the bed to yank the knife out of the side table. "I know Herreras may be a clan name.."  
  
She had the grace to blush a little as she tucked the knife back in her skirt's waistline. "I am what you would call a gypsy," she said. "My mother..died when I was a babe, but before I was born she and my father quarreled over a name. He wanted to name me after his aunt, Esmeralda, while she wanted to name me after her mother, Griselda. He complained that no daughter of his should ever grow up with a nickname of 'Grizzy', and she said that no daughter of hers would ever grow up named after a cheap floozy. So my grandpapa suggested one from outside the clan, and when an uncle who had traveled to Greece mentioned the goddess Diana, it seemed like a good idea. I hear this story all the time," she added. "They like to laugh about how Father tried to re-name me later, but as a babe I refused to answer to anything else." There was a slight pause. "Are you really the Opera Ghost? Is the story that I was told true, about you and the soprano?"  
  
Erik felt his chest tighten, and he turned his head away. "It is true," he said simply, closing his eyes against the memories. He shut them tight, trying to keep out the tears that he thought he could no longer shed, and felt a weight on the end of the bed. Blinking away the moisture, he glanced up. Diana sat on the edge of the bed, her large liquid brown eyes staring at him solemnly. He stared back, caught in the calm and tranquil gaze, unable to look anywhere else. His breathing slowed and he regained a sense of composure as their eyes were locked. Finally she blinked, a long, slow blink that let her heavy black eyelashes rest on her skin for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then she smiled and stood up, breaking the spell.  
  
"You'll need a few more days before being able to help me with the wall," she said, sending suddenly cool and gauging eyes over his body. "You'd better rest."  
  
The last thing that crossed his mind before Erik drifted off into a strangely calm and even sleep was that he hadn't asked about his cat. 


	9. Fist of Fear

Author's Note: I need to get a different chair. This one hurts my bum. I'm also trying a new format! Yay for me.  
  
~Ch 8~  
  
Diana spent the rest of the day cleaning up the rooms, instead of working on the wall. When she cleaned up the other bedroom, she decided she like it. The décor was rather dark and off-putting, but since most of the furniture and decoration were broken, that was easily remedied. She took out the coffin and managed to split it up for braces for the wall. Then she hung the hammock between the posts that made the canopy. She did think it was kind of weird---Erik had made himself a coffin for a bed, but still had a draped canopy above it. It was a strange cross between normalcy and morbidity. But the torn silk from one of the wall hangings that made up the hammock looked rather cheery against the severe room.   
  
  
  
When she was really bored, she cut up some more of the shredded decorations around the 'house' and made herself a window. But that didn't help her during the next panic attack.   
  
She just finished taking the empty tray out of Erik's room, when she stumbled and had to put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her eyes slid up to the fallen wall, with only a tiny hole in it that showed at least a week's worth of work. The thought hit her: she was never going to get out of this place. She was going to die, trapped under a building, alone, without ever seeing her family or the sky again. She would never feel the air in her hair, the grass under her feet….  
  
The tray hit the ground with a crash that seemed to come from far away. Her breath came short. Never get out, never get out….her vision began to blur at the edges, and she sank to the ground suddenly, her legs too weak to hold her. This was a bad one---she hadn't had one like this for a while. Her arms wrapped around her body as she squeezed her eyes tight, but it seemed like she couldn't feel anything. Not her hands, nor the floor beneath her. Her breath hitched, coming quick and shallow, and everything seemed to get a lot closer, a lot tighter up against her body.   
  
A feeling started tugging on the end of her senses. Another person, another arm around her….. She vaguely heard a voice, but her own thudding heartbeat stopped her from hearing it fully. Two arms around her now…. Were they her own? She felt something hard press against her side, and fighting through the fear she remembered her pipes, still in her skirt pocket. But they were pressing into her, squishing her, closing in on her, squeezing her against the walls that were coming closer… Suddenly they were moved, and she breathed a little easier. There was silence, then, the pure silence of death, and she could hear her own gasping breath in it as she clenched herself tighter. Then the sound started.  
  
It began low, low and soft, almost hesitant, but soon it began to grow, louder and fuller, like a flower slowly unfurling. She barely recognized it as her pipes: the tones that were coaxed from them were sweet and miraculous. Not even her father's playing could have come close to the heavenly sounds that were coming from the pipes. The music was unfamiliar, but clean and crisp, sounding of hope and love and freedom. That's what it was, she thought, as she focused on just the music surrounding her. Freedom. The song soared into upper registers that required more skill than merely placing fingers over the holes and blowing, and Diana got a feeling of a bird, some nameless heavenly bird, cartwheeling and airborne on the wings of the wind and its song. The bird was free, singing its joy to the sky, singing the hope of the free wind and sky forever. She lay back and let the music wash over her. As the song wound down, the bird relaxed its song and found a perch on a branch, singing its knowledge of the sky. This is not the end, the bird sang. This is not the end.  
  
Diana's eyes fluttered open as her breath resumed its normal breathing. She found herself leaning against the wall, weak as the proverbial kitten, right outside of Erik's door. Sitting only a few feet away from her was Erik himself, slowly lowering her pipes from his mouth. He watched her carefully, looking for signs of something she couldn't name.   
  
"I've never heard anyone play like that," she said quietly. Her voice felt hoarse and scratchy to her ears. "Not even my father, who made those pipes."  
  
"Are you feeling better?" he asked.  
  
She nodded, looking down, suddenly feeling exposed. The tray had fallen and scattered across the floor, and she frowned at it. "I need to pick that up," she said, struggling to move. But she didn't want to crawl to the strewn silverware, so she was glad when he stopped her.   
  
"You need rest," he said, his low melodic voice full of some hidden emotion. She almost laughed at the role reversal. "Those can take a lot out of you," he went on.  
  
That made her react. She jerked her head up (rather slowly). "How do you know?"  
  
He gave her a look that was heavily laden with irony. "I've had some experience with fear attacks myself," was all he said. "Have you had many in here?"  
  
"A few," Diana admitted. "It's the closeness," she said. She didn't catch the relieved expression that crossed his face for a second. "I can't bear to be in closed spaces. It's probably because I've traveled all my life. This is the longest I've ever been in a building, and I can't get out, and we're under Paris itself, and-"  
  
He placed a hand on her shoulder, calming her down. "Easy, child."  
  
Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed at him, exhibiting some of her fire the first time since she collapsed. "Child?" she mimicked icily. "I am no child. I am twenty-two, you know. I'm practically an old maid, if you go by the gadjo standards. Besides, age means almost nothing. I was fourteen when I killed my first man." She left out the part that it was a drunken farmer. That sort of this doesn't impress.  
  
A brief sparkle of humor lit his eye momentarily. "All right," he said, holding up his hands. "You say your father made these?" he said, changing the subject safely, examining the pipes in his hand. He held them up to the light, investigating the bindings and the cleanliness of the holes. "They are quite well-made."  
  
She smiled shyly. "I'm sure my father would thank you. It's high praise coming from someone who plays them so well; I'm sure you know quite a bit about what you're doing."  
  
He nodded. "I have studied hard."  
  
She shook her head in response. "Yes, but you also have that rare skill that is hardly ever seen. A gift of music, if you will."  
  
Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps."   
  
Seeing that the conversation had taken a lull, Diana stood up shakily. "I think you're right," she said, placing one hand on the wall. "I think I do need rest."  
  
"Allow me to help you to your bed," Erik said, placing a kind hand under her elbow. Together they made their way, weaving back and forth like a couple of drunks, into his old room. She felt his surprise at her changes to his room, but he said nothing and helped her into the hammock.   
  
She glanced at him sleepily. "Will you make it back to your room?" she asked quietly.  
  
He nodded. Comforted, she let her eyes slide shut and sleep claim her. But as he left, she could feel him pause at the doorway, standing there silently. Then he left, humming the song he had played on the pipes under his breath.  
  
Ooooo…. Finally a new chapter! 


End file.
